


Who Ya Gonna Call? A MobStruck Movie Adventure of Going Legit (Ghostbusters AU)

by glitterandrocketfuel



Series: MobStruck AU [2]
Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mob, Anal Sex, Established Relationship, Ghostbusters AU, I Ain't Afraid of No Ghost (Ghostbusters), M/M, MANIA references, the dumb mob
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-11
Updated: 2020-06-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:53:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24656407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glitterandrocketfuel/pseuds/glitterandrocketfuel
Summary: Lights! Camera! Peterick! The Peterick Creations Challenge puts our boys into movie universes this summer, and we return once more to the MobStruck boys as they make a go of going legit.Making an honest living is hard work when the underworld's trying to drag you back, but it's even more work when the netherworld comes calling. Everyone wants a piece of Pete--even the ghosts haunting the club building. If there's something strange in your neighborhood, who you gonna call?  Ghostbusters LA has just opened its doors (and they're hiring!) but is a paranormal investigation agency really going to solve their problems?
Relationships: Patrick Stump/Pete Wentz
Series: MobStruck AU [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1782697
Comments: 17
Kudos: 17
Collections: Lights! Camera! Peterick!





	Who Ya Gonna Call? A MobStruck Movie Adventure of Going Legit (Ghostbusters AU)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [doctorkilljoy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctorkilljoy/gifts).



> So this one is just rife with ridiculousness. Mixing the Dumb Mob and Ghostbusters? Pure silliness. I think we need some silliness right about now.  
> This one goes out to doctorkilljoy for being my sounding board.

"Patrick, I don't think going legit is working out."

The wake of Pete's words left a silence, punctuated by the quiet plip-plip-plip of dripping pool water onto the corner of Patrick's _real paper_ newspaper, which he had delivered to the apartment he and Pete were sharing in the Don's high-rise (and the base of operations for LA's underworld, of which Pete and Patrick were attempting to divest themselves--with the Don's blessing, of course, because the other way involved divesting feet-first under a sheet).

Patrick looked up at his boyfriend, backlit by the sun, and squinted one eye. "You're a legitimate club owner," he said. "With a write-up in today's Arts and Entertainment section that says--and I quote--'Folie à Deux's "madness of two" romanticized-codependency aesthetic is one of the most complete experiences available in this city. The owner/backers themselves, a reclusive duo identifying as DecayDance, took their strangely brilliant vision to the most appropriate space around. The building started as a temple built by members of a cult known as the Disloyal Order of Water Buffaloes in the 1930s, to some strange specifications, but became a clothing factory after the cult's dissolution in the 1950s. The factory closed its doors in 1989 and the building was condemned, rehabbed, plagued with strange problems, rehabbed again, and finally fell into the hands of the current owners amidst persistent rumors of hauntings and a confirmed reputation with local construction experts.'" Patrick glanced up to see Pete's wide grin at the building's...quirks with which Patrick was so intimately acquainted (because _somebody_ had to go visit the work crews who'd dropped tools and refused to re-enter the building after one too many instances of 'weird shit').

"See? I told you people would love the place." Pete unknotted the towel from around his hips, letting it drop to the stones under the wrought iron table on the little rooftop patio attached to the pool area. The sun loved his coppery skin, catching in the water droplets and making Patrick want to lick them from Pete's corded thighs.

Patrick flipped the corner of the paper away from Pete's excess water and laid it out flat on the table. It proved a useless gesture when Pete leaned over and stabbed a wet finger right into the center of the page. "Ugh. Who did that and why do they still have a job?"

His finger had come down on a colorful, garish half-page ad all but drowned out the retro five-martini graphic that rated their "legit effort" club an "unmissable." 

* * *

**WE'RE READY TO BELIEVE YOU!**

Paranormal Infestation Investigation Experts Now Expanding!*

Manifestations Managed

Hauntings Halted

Poltergeists Pacified**

\--

*Now hiring! Training provided!

**Sorry, we don't do vampires. But call for referrals! We know the Business!

* * *

Patrick finished reading about "state-of-the-art paranormal analysis originally funded by top universities and cutting-edge technologies guaranteed to give you results!" and shrugged. "Yeah, I guess every so often a crackpot slips by...or slips the ad department an extra hundred bucks to run a prank ad."

Pete shook his head. "No, the ad's legit. I'm talking about the design. Look at how those fonts clash. You can't do that in four-color ink on broadsheet. It's practically criminal--and I know criminal."

Patrick raised his eyebrows. When he first met the real Pete Wentz, heir to the Clandestine organization's vast empire of underworld enterprise, he'd expected--and thought he'd found--a party-boy as shallow as the first step leading down into his beloved infinity pool and no brighter than the average pool noodle.

Patrick had been so very wrong.

The "dumb as a pool noodle" thing was...well, it wasn't completely an act, but the ways in which Pete--his sunny personality, his tender heart, ( _his hard and bronzed body--shut up, Patrick's libido_ )--was smart were so esoteric that they never failed to surprise Patrick and take his breath away.

Pete caught him staring. "What?"

Patrick shook his head and blinked away his thoughts. "And it takes away from our five-martini rating. I feel like that should be the focus of the page, you know?" But then what Pete _hadn't_ said hit him. "Wait--you think that ad is serious?"

Pete met his eyes. "Sure. I mean, I'd call them for Folie if hauntings weren't part of the whole fever-dream vibe, y'know?"

Folie a Deux, the Madness of Two. Pete had picked the name while Patrick scouted out the building--the article hadn't said that the building stood empty as a "loss" on The Don's books. Pete bought it off her for one dollar and twenty-nine cents, (which she promptly spent on an iTunes download of her favorite song and insisted that her son dance with her). Patrick still got a little misty-eyed over the end of the song, when Pete helped his mother execute a slow spin and a dip. She came back up to her assistant holding out a sheaf of papers and presented the deed to Pete as the last notes faded away.

"Yeah, but the hauntings are just rumors. Probably started by the old Don to keep people from snooping around the property."

Pete had thrown himself into the old factory's renovations, visiting every day and spreading the word from the other clubs in the territory he'd carved out for himself. His charm lured up-and-coming DJs, savvy bartenders, and sure-footed wait staff. 

Meanwhile, Patrick trailed after him and spent every other day in meetings with the general contractor in charge of renovating the space and having Andy "handle things" when shenanigans inevitably started up. Things like missing tools and construction gear moved to the wrong place which felt more like pranks than actual threats. Pete insisted they were the building's ghosts, but Patrick had a more pragmatic explanation. Someone was testing the new players on the scene. He enlisted Joe to double security.

Pete, on the other hand, was enchanted with the rumors. He was sure that what the "ghosts" needed was just a reason to party with beautiful people, and what ghost wouldn't want to haunt the hottest nightclub on the strip? Patrick just shook his head and indulged Pete's flight of fancy and quietly met with Andy and Joe over the very un-spectral movements into their territory by very much alive members of rival gangs fixing to nibble at the edges of the new clan's defenses.

"Patrick, you have no sense of wonder," Pete was saying now. "I'm telling you, our building has spirit. It's practically infested with spirits."

"Oh, it was infested all right," Patrick retorted. But he was much less worried about spirits than the spirit of might-makes-right present in the underworld for a new player. The Don's patronage warned off the big guns and the serious threats, but the underworld was versatile and didn't always need firefights in the streets to do the dirty work of driving a business or a gang out of turf. Sometimes nuisances and harassment would do just enough.

They'd lost two crews over the course of months--one entire crew simply walked off the job and cited "hostile conditions" during a particularly eventful week where the number of workplace accidents climbed high enough for Patrick to need to be on-site. 

The second crew was fine until Pete took a few days away to celebrate the Don's birthday, then the foreman called Patrick. "Look, he seems to be our good luck charm. When he's not around, people are dropping tools off scaffolds, spilling paint, walking into ladders they swear weren't there. Maybe you two could show up and put the fear of the Don into 'em, eh?" Half the second crew had refused to come back, so Patrick kept the other half, hired new, and quietly gave everybody a raise while Pete worked his charm with the crews.

"All I'm saying is that maybe we--you and I--could do something completely outside what we normally do," Pete was saying. He peeked out at Patrick from underneath his towel, which was over his head and shoulders and made him look like a Scooby-Doo ghost under a sheet, which he capitalized on with a handsy little grab at Patrick's shoulders.

"Do you want to hire these guys or work for them?" Patrick only half-heartedly fought him off and made a point to pass his hand over Pete's hot-pink suit just long enough to squeeze.

Pete tapped the picture in the ad and grinned. "If it gives me a chance to see you in one of those sassy jumpsuits."

"I would never!" It was Patrick's turn to blush as Pete crumpled the paper between them and leaned in for a chlorine kiss. "We don't have ghosts," he mumbled around Pete's soft, pool-chilled lips.

The Soul Punk's presence was enough to scare away whoever was causing the trouble and Folie à Deux opened with all the fanfare of Pete's tackiest gold lame lounge robe. Curiosity-seekers and club-goers alike showed up to the club. The claim of DecayDance as a small but scrappy mover in the LA underworld was staked in Pete's signature style.

"Don't let the ghosts hear you say that," Pete murmured. "Will you sit with me tonight?"

Patrick suddenly felt the fabric of his suit a little too intensely. "I--for part of the night. You know Joe likes me at the bar when things get busy." He dipped his head. "And I don't want to get in the way of your other friends."

Pete turned and stared up at him. "You're never in the way." He turned back and muttered something and Patrick swore he heard, "They're not really my friends."

Pete held court with movers and shakers in the nightclub scene, making the entertainment venue’s reputation for beautiful people wanting to “be seen,” much like he used to direct his mobile entourage. Only now, Pete introduced people to interesting drinks and up-and-coming DJs instead of interesting bets and up-and-coming pharmaceuticals. But the terms were set by the Don, and to a lesser extent, Patrick, and enforced by Truant Wave. It was the Don's word that spread the idea that DecayDance was not in the underworld’s business and kept outside the usual rivalries that consumed the underworld's factions. 

DecayDance's books would be completely open, and completely clean.

Just like Pete's soul.

**

That night at the club, Pete's smile was just as bright as usual. He chose a suit with shiny fabric and a shirt that had lapels so wide he could have qualified for a terminal at Burbank Municipal Airport. He was surrounded by friends and patrons who recognized him and working his usual magic of introducing the right people to the right other people.

Patrick watched him from his place behind the bar. Pete was animated, in his element, making gestures like a wizard summoning magic while that suit that couldn't decide whether it wanted to be green or gold dazzled everyone around him. When he wasn’t ensconced in his booth at the little mid-level alcove between the upper and lower dance floors, he was leading glamorous starlets and handsome, artsy-looking guys with fancy dental work out to the edge of the upper floor to take a ride on the balance lifts. The platforms rose and fell between the two dance floors, and only the weight of enough people on the top level could sink the platform and make the corresponding lift rise. 

Patrick shook his head. Simple physics using weights and pulleys and Pete turned it into something magic. _People remember joy around him_ , Patrick thought. While Patrick worked on making people remember that they didn’t get their “special substances” from Pete anymore.

When he returned to scanning the room (read: watching Pete work said room), Pete was at the center of a knot of stunning-looking women and men, out on the dance floor in a writhing mass of...well, something that might be called dancing once seizure-inducing environmental conditions had been ruled out. Among them, the eye-bleeding day-glo print of the pair of models currently sandwiching Pete in some sort of grindy group-flail that should have been painful if it weren't for the indolent smirk on Pete's face.

Patrick's fingers knotted in the bar towel and he turned away. This was the natural habitat of the wild Pete. He busied himself fixing a large order for a server of one of the VIP booths while the crowd of partygoers swelled and the bar patrons piled up three deep. Patrick was sweating by the time he was able to look up again to check on Pete when his Pete-sense drew his eyes to the VIP booth where Pete usually held court.

As he dried off a shaker, Patrick watched Pete grin that charming smile. Pete threw his head back and laughed at something someone said, then leaned in to whisper something into the ear of the model in the day-glo dress. Patrick's fingers tightened again. The way Pete tilted his head, exposed the line of his jaw, brought those sensual lips so close to someone else's skin--

Patrick snapped the bar towel down over the brass rail. "Hayley," he snapped. "I'm going on a re-stock run."

Hayley, bouncing around at ninety miles a minute, glanced his way and waggled her eyebrows. "We're low on Triple-Sec and those little glow bands for the Haunted Martini drinks."

Patrick tried to talk himself down off the ledge even as he stalked through the crowd. Which wasn't as impressive as it could have been if he'd been a foot taller. It involved a lot more, "'Scuse me, beg your pardon, watch the elbow, mind if I get by," than if he'd been Schwarzenegger-height. But eventually, he passed by the VIP booth.

Pete was laughing into the model's neck and waving his hand casually. "No, no, no, that's not--that's not how it went. It was--" He broke off mid-sentence when his eyes met Patrick's for one long moment and his expression froze. 

Patrick turned on his heel and walked away. Pete knew where to find him.

**

The storeroom was dark and cool and blessedly quiet. So when Pete slipped inside and said, "Patrick," his voice was only accompanied by the sound of breathing. He'd been feeling Patrick's eyes on him all night and it reminded him of the first time they met. When he still thought it didn't matter what Patrick _thought_ of him, as long as he was watching him.

A body whose presence he could feel close in the darkness, whose breath he could feel against his ear. "Not going to talk to me?" Pete said, a smirk in his voice. "Okay, then. Let's not talk." He moved between two rows of stacked boxes that clanked like bottles when he brushed against them, into a little nook of darker darkness.

Hands on Pete's shoulders turned him around to face the wall. Pete put his palms out flat and rested his cheek against the cool surface while fingers ghost-danced up under his suit jacket to where the shiny silk of his shirt was tucked into his pants. "Mmm," he said. "Is this just a pitstop or did you have something more involved in mind?" The fingers danced around his waist, tickling his bare stomach through the space in the placket between his buttons. Pete's belly tightened. "I brought lube," he said a little breathlessly. "It's in my inside left pocket." He shivered when a cool breeze drifted past his right ear. "Patrick--" Suddenly, the fingers at his waist pinched and he yelped, ending on a shaky little laugh.

This not-talking thing was new, but not completely unwelcome. He liked it when Patrick took control because Patrick was always there to catch him.

Something cold brushed against his ear and he huffed another trembling laugh. "Have you been sucking on ice cubes, babe?" He made to turn around but something hard against his tailbone pushed him back against the wall, holding him there. Pete got the message. "Okay, okay. I'll stay put like a good boy." He grinned in the darkness. He knew Patrick knew how much he liked being called a good boy, and if Patrick wasn't speaking right now, then he'd just have to call himself a good boy. "Am I a good boy for you, Patrick?"

The hands ran up his chest. Patrick must have been hanging out in the cold storage because his touch left shivers and a trail of goosebumps all over Pete's skin. The hands flicked his belt open, then the button to his pants. Pete arched his back to allow better access.

The touch disappeared for a second before returning, this time to cover his eyes. Pete laughed, more genuinely now. "What, are we playing hide and seek now? Because I know where your penis can hide. There's a couple of places where nobody will ever think to look."

A distant voice and a closer thump filled the silence of the room and Pete stilled. The hands disappeared. "Patrick did you lock--" His answer came with the squeak of the door, followed by a slice of music and people and shouted conversation suddenly magnified, then silenced again as the door closed.

"Pete?"

Patrick's whisper sounded far away and kind of shocking after the silent treatment.

"How’d you get so far over there, babe? I’m right here where you left me," he said. "Like a good boy."

"Huh?" Patrick's shoes scuffed along the floor. "Oh, there you are."

Patrick's voice wasn't the low, sultry pitch he used when they were getting lovey, but Pete wasn't picky when it came to the bartender-slash-gang boss-slash-former enforcer-slash-pool boy. Every Patrick mood and every Patrick voice was his kink.

Although he did prefer warm-hands Patrick to the chilly touch from before.

**

Patrick wouldn't deny that the cool darkness felt so much better after a whole night of pounding beats and flashing lights and watching Pete laugh and drink and dance with other people. "Sometimes I wonder if you really are a good boy," he growled as he stepped up to where Pete leaned against the wall. He buried his face in Pete's hair and breathed in the scent of his cologne, hair product, and the effervescent, pervasive undertone of chlorine-y salt that lingered on Pete's skin.

Pete arched against him. "I am, Patrick. I can be _such_ a good boy for you."

Patrick slid his hands up under Pete's suit jacket and found his belt loose around his waist. "I see you've already started without me." He brushed Pete's hair aside and tasted the warm skin of his neck, leaving little nips here and there until he reached Pete's earlobe and nipped a little harder.

"What do you me--ohh, right there." Pete arched back against him and dropped his head onto Patrick's shoulder when Patrick's hand worked into the open fly of Pete's dress pants. Pete was already hard for him, warm and slightly sweaty. 

Patrick's thumb brushed over the head of Pete's cock, smearing the drop of pre-come over the head. Patrick felt the ripple travel up and down Pete's body and smiled into his nape, just where the baby hairs were beginning to curl from the heat of his body. Even at quarter after midnight, Pete smelled like sunshine and high-noon heat, bringing memories of the first time he made Pete fall apart, trapped against him in the cool shade of the pool house at the Clandestine compound.

The sweetness of the memory chilled when Patrick remembered the afterglow lasted as long as it took for Pete to remember the world they both inhabited and offer money for Patrick's silence. That kind of hardness in Pete did not suit him as well as the hot velvety hardness in Patrick's hand right now. Which was why Patrick had moved the entire underworld to take him out of it.

But that didn't mean it didn't try to pull him back in. "I see you out there, you know," he murmured against Pete's neck, slow-jacking him as he spoke. "They grind against you, those pretty, pretty girls." He punctuated his words with a grind of his own, finding sweet friction against the swell of Pete's ass cheeks. "Do they turn you on?"

Patrick wasn't entirely engaging in dirty-talk just for dirty talk's sake. Pete was warm and affectionate to everyone in his orbit and sometimes Patrick worried that he wasn't enough for Pete.

"Patrick--"

"Shh. You don't have to answer that. It wasn't a fair question." Patrick used his free hand to work Pete's boxers and pants down over his hips. "You're surrounded by beautiful people." Pete's cock sprang free, bouncing in Patrick's loose grip. The warmth of Pete's rounded ass-cheeks heated Patrick's belly through his dress shirt and he suddenly wanted his lover naked against his own flesh. "You're beautiful. I get jealous." 

They didn't have time for naked, because those other beautiful people needed their shining star. Patrick dropped to his knees and sank his teeth into firm, tender flesh. But at least he could make sure he was responsible for a little of the afterglow.

"Y-you shouldn't." Pete's words were shaky, the tremors in his corded thighs under Patrick's fingers translating out to his voice, particularly thready when Patrick's fingers found their way to the heated space behind Pete's balls.

"I can't help it." Patrick's thumbs caressed the crease of Pete's ass as he spread the other man open.

Pete gasped under the onslaught of Patrick's tongue in his most sensitive place. As his knees buckled, Patrick smiled darkly to himself. "No one else can do this for you, can they?"

"Patrick, please. You--you have to fuck me."

"You know we can't." His answer was muffled as he worked Pete open with fingers and tongue. "Just--enjoy this--for now," he said between pointed flicks of his tongue against Pete's twitching hole. "If only I had lube."

Pete reached back to hold Patrick's head just where he liked it. "I told you I do," he gasped out. "I wanted us--to have--some--ah!--time."

Patrick didn't know what the hell he was talking about, but it wasn't important. What was important was Pete's confession that he'd wanted some time with Patrick. As his finger rubbed over the swell of Pete's prostate, his heart swelled along with it. He trailed kisses up the curve of Pete's ass to his tailbone, where he nipped once and soothed with his tongue. "I promise, baby. If we're not exhausted--"

Pete took one hand off the wall. "Patrick, you should listen when I tell you things." He fumbled in his pocket and held up a single-use packet of lube.

Patrick was a hundred percent certain Pete had never said anything about lube, either recently or when they were getting ready to go out. _Maybe I_ haven't _been listening_ , he thought. _I've been so busy making sure he's out that I haven't let him in_.

He tangled his fingers with Pete's, the lube sachet warming between their palms while his other hand fumbled in his jacket pocket for a condom (for easy clean-up). When he slicked up his fingers, Pete was already ready for him. "I hate to rush--"

"I'd rather rush than wait any longer," Pete replied, shifting his stance to line his hips up with Patrick's.

Faced with the Hobson's choice of rushing it or putting it off yet again, Patrick rolled on the condom, pressed his lips to the back of Pete's sweaty neck, and pushed in.

Pete hissed but cut off Patrick's questioning murmur. "Feels good," he gasped, arching his hips. "Just...wish you had your cold hands back a little."

"Next time we'll take our time, baby." The tight heat of Pete's body was already filling Patrick's head with fog. "I'll bring an ice bucket, light some candles, whatever you want." He moved slowly at first, reading Pete's reactions before chasing that delicious friction between them faster, counting the hitches in Pete's breathing to let him know when to wrap his fingers around the other man's cock, when to twist _just so_ \--Patrick had not spent nearly enough time cataloging Pete's reactions to his touch lately, but he knew a few tricks and he used them now because he knew he wasn't going to last and it was a point of honor not to leave Pete behind.

He leaned forward to growl in Pete's ear. "Sometimes I have to remind myself that this is your job." He grazed his thumb over the head, smearing pre-come along Pete's shaft. "That you're not just showing off to torment me. Are you showing off, Pete?"

Pete dropped his head back. "Maybe--maybe a little." He crashed his hips back into Patrick's. “I like it when you watch me.”

A shudder went through Patrick’s entire body and he grabbed onto the wall to steady himself. _You’re captivating_ , he wanted to say. _I’m always in your orbit_ , he wanted to say. _I can’t take my eyes off you_ , he wanted to say. All he managed was, “I’m--always watching.”

The ripple passed into Pete’s body. “Yeah--yeah, _Patrick_ \--” He seized up suddenly, spilling onto Patrick’s expertly-moving fingers, tightening around him like a hot vise.

Patrick thrust into him a few more times, letting the tight heat of his lover’s body and Pete’s over-stimulated little breathless, “oh’s” wind him tighter. At the last moment, he felt a stray breeze--or maybe a drip of condensation from the air-conditioning system--slide between them and trail down his chest. The last bit of sensation was too much--he fell over the edge into release.

**

Sometime later, Patrick pulled away, leaving him cold to take care of the condom and clean up on one of his ever-present bar towels. "I don't like you putting kisses on the necks of your other friends." Patrick returned, and Pete's hands clutched at air until his arms wrapped around him again. "Even if I know you don't mean anything by it."

"Patrick you know--"

Patrick pressed two fingers that still smelled of Pete to Pete's lips. "Shh. I do know. I'm trying to work it out in my head but--it's not easy, seeing you out there and knowing I can't keep you all to myself."

Pete melted a little inside. All the times when he wanted nothing more than to crawl into Patrick's lap--crawl into _Patrick_ \--felt like weaknesses. He wanted so badly to go legit--to never have to worry about crushing an enemy or being seen as weak just because he thrilled to see people's faces when he introduced them to something he knew they'd love instead of seeing fear on their faces before he stomped them with a boot.

But he found himself doing all the same things as he did before, under his father's umbrella. He knew that Patrick and Joe and Andy and even his mom were all working around him to clear space for him to make his mark his own way, but he wanted to show them all that he could do it by himself, too. "Maybe this is what I do, Patrick. You can't be mad at me for doing what I do," he said around Patrick's fingers.

Patrick replaced his fingers with a gloved hand on his cheek. "I know, Pete." He leaned his sweaty forehead against Pete's. "And I'm not mad at you--never you. It's me. You're like--the disco ball and I'm just a house light. Everyone's dazzled by you."

Pete tilted his head to lean into Patrick's neck and just inhale. There were a lot of things he wanted to say to Patrick. Disco balls were just mirrors that reflected the light around them. And house lights kept people from tripping. But he didn't know quite how to reach Patrick when he was like this. "Patrick--"

Loud thumping came from the ceiling. Patrick drew back. "What the--I told them to deadbolt the door to the upstairs space. That's still only half-finished--" He pulled away from Pete and started buttoning up. 

Pete felt the cold air swirling between their bodies and sighed. "Yeah--you go take care of that and I'll--get back to it."

Patrick leaned in for a quick kiss. "We'll cuddle tonight, okay?"

The breeze as he ducked out the storeroom door felt like cool fingers trailing down Pete's chest.

**

"Patrick, I don't think going legit is working out." Pete, still dripping wet from the pool, reached across the table for a cherry danish.

The scent of chlorine reminded Patrick of last night at the club. Of some of the strange things Pete had said. "Don't you want to keep trying?" Patrick lifted his eyes from the newspaper. 

Pete shook his head, sending water droplets flying everywhere. "Not if it gets me the silent treatment and angry not-sex from you."

"Pete--" He flipped to the last page of the Arts and Entertainment section. "I wasn't angry. I was jealous." He glanced up over the top of the paper. "I'm a possessive little bitch sometimes." 

"You shouldn't be jealous. You should trust me. And listen to me." Pete split the danish with his thumbs and held one half out over the top of the paper.

Patrick stared at the thumb, covered in icing and sticky-sweet pastry crumbs. He leaned forward and bit it, then soothed the icing from it with his tongue before going back to his reading. Only a brief mention of Folie’s existence as the home venue of a DJ who’d been tapped to collaborate with Khalid and a grainy photo of someone who could be Zendaya in the line to get in.

"You knew I had lube. I told you I had lube. But you pretended--" Pete took a sulky bite of the danish, cherry filling and creamy white icing oozing between his teeth. Patrick looked up again from the paper and wanted to lick away the crumbs from the corner of his mouth, but wisely didn't.

"Hand to God, I swear you never said you had lube. At least, not to me." 

"But I did," Pete insisted. "Right when you first came in. You were being all Mister Silent-But-Sexy with your cold hands undoing my pants--I kind of liked it, by the way, but we have to talk about that stuff first, and--"

"Wait--" Patrick leaned forward. "When I came in, you already had your pants undone!" Patrick's gut curdled. He never had any reason to doubt Pete even if he did burn with jealousy when Pete was "on duty" with pretty starlets or handsome movers and shakers of the nightlife of the city. 

Pete's expression clouded. "Nooo, you were already waiting when I came in. As soon as I shut the door you were there, right behind me. Don't you remember?" The cloud turned into a grin. "You pushed me up against the wall. I kinda liked it because you were all bossy-Patrick and you know just what I need sometimes." Pete reached over and booped Patrick's nose. "Just like I knew what you needed without you having to tell me." 

His grin turned into a pleased little smirk that would ordinarily have Patrick returning his own self-indulgent smile. But Patrick wasn't smiling now. "Pete, I swear--" He set the paper down flat on the table between them, the bright ad jumping off the page right beneath the listing of Folie à Deux as "hot-spot of the weekend."

"And then we heard the noise and you went to lock the door and you were all talkative again."

Patrick's entire insides were cold now. "Pete," he said carefully. "I swear to you. The first time I went into that storeroom was when you were already there." He held Pete's gaze as firmly as he could with his own. "I said your name and you said, 'Right where you left me.' I thought you said it because we usually meet in that storeroom." Patrick bit his lip. "Look, if you were--I mean, if someone else--" He ducked his head as a wave of unexpected hurt sloshed through him. "I'd understand if you missed your old life..."

"Patrick!" Pete's voice was just as hurt. "How could you even think that!"

"Then who were you with!"

"You, I swear! I thought it was you! Your hands were cold but I've had enough people's hands all over me to recognize yours!"

"But they weren't mine!"

Pete blinked. "That can't be right." He swallowed the last bite of danish and licked his fingers. "I know what your hands feel like. You don't touch me like you own me."

Patrick paused with his hand pushed into his hair. "I--do people touch you that way?"

"Not you."

"Too many people think they get to touch you," he mumbled, making himself a hypocrite by putting his hand over Pete's. "You don't have to let them."

"But--" Pete's voice faded and he stared down at their joined hands. "You didn't pass anyone coming out of the room when you came in?"

Patrick shook his head. "Not a soul. In fact, the door was kind of stuck. I had to force it open. We'll have to get the carpenter back in to look at it."

Pete's brow furrowed again. "That door is perfectly fine, I'm sure of it. In fact, I remember deciding that was going to be our storage closet because it lets so much light in around the edges." He offered Patrick a shy grin. "It reminds me of the pool house door. And that reminds me of the pool house. And the _stuff we did_ in the pool house." He tilted his head. "Before it turned into a bomb, I mean."

Patrick was glad Pete could laugh about it, but he didn't find it nearly as funny to think of the bags of fertilizer and "pool chemicals" and what he foolishly thought was somebody's sloppy floral tape strewn around the little shed where he and Pete had their first, adversarial encounters. If it weren't for his emotional volatility, Patrick would never have sent Andy pictures of what turned out to be actual, incendiary volatility as part of a plot to remove Pete from the Clandestine organization's hierarchy...permanently.

Patrick's fingers flexed over Pete's. "And you're sure no one else was in the room with us."

"Patrick, it's a closet. It's not that big. We would have bumped into them, especially when you started ramming--"

"I believe you." Patrick blushed and waved his free hand while warmth shot from his cheeks straight to his groin at the memory. "But then...maybe your imagination...ran away with you?" Even as he said it, Patrick knew it was a dumb idea.

"My imagination's pretty advanced, Patrick, but it still can't open my fly without the help of my own hands." Pete patted the table in front of him in an absent-minded rhythm. "It could be--no."

"What?"

"I shouldn't say it."

And Patrick shouldn't ask, given the merry look in Pete's eyes and the tight clamp of his teeth over his bottom lip--an invitation so obvious it was practically begging him to ask.

As if he could ever say no.

"Come on, what are you thinking?"

Pete's eyes danced and his grin burst through. "It was--" he paused dramatically and Patrick groaned, "--the ghost!"

"No. Just--Pete--"

"Come _on_ , Patrick! It makes total sense!" Pete began to tick reasons off on his fingers. "Nobody else was in there, before or after we were. Those hands were cold. And they disappeared when you came in but nobody passed you through the door. No _body_." He added emphasis on the last word.

Patrick felt a little sick. "Pete--" He put his hands down flat on the newspaper, not even coincidentally hiding the colorful ad proclaiming, 'WE ARE READY TO BELIEVE YOU!' He leaned forward. "Even if it is a--I can't even say it without sounding crazy--someone--"

"Some _thing_ ," Pete interjected, without the slightest bit of trepidation in his voice.

"Someone or something touched you without your permission. That's horrible."

"Patrick relax. It wasn't a big deal." Pete grinned. "I got groped by a ghost."

Patrick crossed his arms. "Why are you not bothered by this?"

Pete cocked his head and shrugged. "I mean...I'm kind of disappointed that it wasn't you--can you imagine if you had ghost hands?"

Patrick snapped his fingers. "Pete! Stay with me, here."

Pete rolled his eyes. "Patrick, it was a few strokes over my chest and undoing my pants." He pursed his lips. "Now that you mention it, if it were you, you'd have already had my pants around my ankles and my dick hard in the same amount of time. Huh." He blinked and brought his gaze back to Patrick's. "Anyway, I'm not bothered by it."

 _But I am_ , Patrick thought. "People need to stop helping themselves to chunks of you."

"Patrick, that's what I do. That's why I'm at the club every night."

He bit his lip. For the past few months, Pete had been struggling a little, adjusting to living in The Don's high-rise instead of the estate in the Hollywood Hills. He was overjoyed at getting his mother back--every morning they had breakfast together on the terrace of her penthouse (and when Patrick could rouse himself early enough, sometimes he was invited to join them, but mostly, he backed off to give Pete and the Don time to rebuild their relationship). 

But after breakfast, Patrick usually found himself down in the Ops center with Andy, managing members of Truant Wave as they still struggled to handle the fallout from Clandestine's punishment from The Don. It was often way past dinner before Patrick finished handling the Truant Wave business, plus whatever tasks The Don still needed her Soul Punk for.

And that was another thing. True to her word, The Don had taken the Gutierrez boy from Clandestine's compound. Stealthily and in the night, in a shocking raid that Patrick had to sit on his hands and watch from the Ops Center. But Andy, bless his conniving little heart, had managed the detour to Pete's old quarters. When The Don was presented with her gift--bagged, tagged, gagged, and squirming in terror--Pete looked away from his old friend's confused expression.

Andy had led Pete into the other room where Patrick watched, out of sight to protect his identity. There, in front of a shaken Pete who did not need to see the terrifying side of his mother, Patrick helped Andy unwrap the other bag of booty. This one decidedly not human.

When he saw the children's book art, still in its frames, Pete's face lit up in joy. "Andy, you saved them?" He turned to Patrick. "You knew about this?"

Patrick ducked his head and knew that he'd do just about anything to see that smile light up Pete's eyes.

Then a wet thump and a choked-off scream came from the other room and the color drained from Pete's face.

Patrick made sure to keep Pete far away from the, er, progress of Chris's "training" after that. Unlike Patrick, who knew an opportunity when it punched him in the face, Chris was not so receptive to his change in status. After a few "Don't you know who I think I am's" and "My mother will hear about this's," Chris finally did seem to realize that his mother wasn't coming to save him and that this... _somebody else's mother_ was not going to let him get away with the same level of spoiled-brattiness as his own. Especially when Chris was shown the newspaper the day they posted his own obituary.

Patrick did have a little sympathy. He still had a copy of his own obit, along with the little funeral card with his picture and the twenty-third Psalm on the back and Our Lady of Guadalupe on the front. These days, he considered it as much of a birth announcement.

The Don, for her part, was having a little fun with Clandestine. Cryptic messages left on some of their destroyed cargo proclaiming ominous warnings like "Suffer not the children" and "Thou shalt not suffer for the sins of thy fathers and mothers" had both Wentz the Senior and Kathryn Gutierrez shifting their expressions from hard and furious to tense and uncertain. Buzz in the Ops Center reported that Clandestine's tithes to The Don had become a bit more generous and Chris himself had finally become resigned to his new existence. He'd chosen the name Dead Stop because his old life had come to one.

Patrick now lifted his eyes to Pete’s. “Listen...maybe you--maybe _we_ \--could back off the club a little. Between that write-up and the grand opening week, it’s been popular and enough people know it’s a hot-spot. You don’t have to sell yourself to sell the club. Especially if there’s something groping you every night--”

Pete’s furrowed-brow look morphed not into a frown like Patrick expected, but a grin. “You said some _thing_ ,” he said, the grin growing even wider.

“Er--some _one_. What does that have to do--”

“You know what it was,” Pete singsonged. “You know it’s the gho-ost!”

“I--wait--no, that’s not--” Patrick gave up. The protest didn’t even sound believable to him and he was the one saying it.

Pete dug his phone out from under the Sports section of the paper and took Patrick’s Arts & Entertainment section out of his hands.

“Hey--no wait--you’re gonna get icing all over it!”

Pete made an exaggerated show of licking his fingers and Patrick’s eyes nearly rolled back out of his head because that was the same face Pete made when he was sucking-- “Oh, God,” Patrick whimpered.

But Pete was busy thumbing his phone instead of the head of Patrick’s suddenly-attentive dick. Patrick pressed one palm to his pants and with the other, reached for the phone. “Who you gonna call?”

Pete held the phone away and thumbed the speaker button as the ring tone echoed, tinny from the speakers.

A female voice with a thick Brooklyn accent answered.

“Ghostbusters.”

**

The woman who took Pete’s call was Janine Melnick. “All right, we’re gonna ask you to come down to the office in person so that we can take readings. You got health insurance?”

Patrick put up resistance. “Hey, I’m not letting some weirdo put a probe in my--”

Pete cut him off. “We, uh, have health care. Does two o’clock work for you?”

Patrick huffed. They wouldn’t have near enough time to make it down the 110 between now and then. “Wait a minute. Who’s ‘we’ and--”

Pete made a shushing motion. “We’ll see you at two.” And hung up.

Patrick knew it was useless to protest. Pete changed and Joe loaded them into the car alongside Andy, whose surface-street navigation skills were next to none and Patrick found himself staring at a nondescript door in a shitty part of town while Joe and Andy took up discreet positions next to different piles of trash and junk. Patrick would have gone first but Pete was too excited and yanked the door open ahead of him.

“Look, Patrick!” He pointed to a piece of paper taped to the wall next to the stairwell. A scribbled word, “Ghostbusters,” and an arrow pointing up in black Sharpie.

“Seems legit,” Patrick retorted.

“Hey, they’re new. We’re new, too,” Pete said quietly.

Patrick’s ire deflated. As if he could say no to anything Pete wanted. He climbed the stairs after Pete to a glass office door and followed him through.

The narrow hallway was lined with pictures--four men in tan coveralls with heavy-looking backpacks, each with something that looked like a cross between a garden sprayer and a super-soaker in front of a classic Cadillac hearse with a bubble-gum siren at the top. The colors had faded with age and the New York skyline had changed but was still recognizable.

Another portrait, a little more recent, showed the original four with a handful of new people including a short guy with a mop of curly hair and thick glasses who’d clearly joined the team in some way. A third large portrait showed a quartet of women, one wearing impressively thick goggles, standing in front of the Giant Bean in Chicago. The brass plaque said, “Chicago Branch, Millennium Park.”

Interspersed were many smaller photos in collages or pinned to the wall. Patrick would have liked to spend time with them--especially the ones showing smears and smudges or straight-up walls of smoke in solid form with labels like, “Class I Manifestation, Class IV Haunting, Class V Phantasmagoric Entity.”

Instead, a woman he recognized from one of the early photos stepped out of the side door. “Mister Wentz? I’m Janine Melnick. Thanks for coming down. Right this way, sir. I’ll ask you a couple of questions and then take a reading in our shielded booth to detect your base ambient spectral energy.”

Patrick didn’t have time to protest as Pete disappeared into the side office and Janine closed the wooden door, leaving him standing alone in the waiting room. The wood paneling and sagging green couch didn’t inspire confidence and Patrick was about to call for backup when a man came out of the opposite door.

The curly-haired man from the second picture stepped in front of him. Much more gray now, but no less curly. And the glasses looked the same--Patrick could respect a man who kept his glasses over time. “Janine, I thought I heard your--oh, hey, you must be the new meat. Come on, let’s get you kitted up with a proton pack and the official uniform!”

The guy grabbed Patrick by the arm and all but dragged him into the other office. Patrick knew better than to underestimate little guys and their strength, but this guy was strong. “Wait--I think there’s been a--”

“Now look, I know you’re excited. I couldn’t wait to get my first uniform either, so let’s get introductions out of the way. My name’s Lewis Tully and I’m not only one of the early Ghostbusters, but I was also a client.” The broad grin this guy wore rivaled anything Pete could come up with. “Check this out.” He turned away from Patrick and bent down behind the cluttered desk. He popped up a moment later with a large backpack like the one in the pictures and shoved it against Patrick’s chest. “Try it on! Go ahead, I know you want to.” He grinned.

Patrick staggered under the weight. “Listen, I’m just a client!” His hands tangled in the straps and he found himself wearing the thing. Backward. He nearly tipped over.

Tully scampered around him. “Like this.” Suddenly, the backpack was on his back instead of his front, but his front had a secured wand-water pistol like the pictures on the walls and he felt much more balanced. And much heavier.

"See?” Tully turned him towards the back of the door where a mirror hung because clearly the place used to be a bedroom.

“Oh my god,” Patrick stuttered. He looked kind of--badass.

The door opened and Janine Melnick walked in, Pete trailing behind her.

When Pete caught a look at him, he whooped. “Patrick! You said you didn’t believe! Look at how awesome you are!”

Patrick looked down. “Okay,” he said. “Maybe...maybe it’s a little bit cool?” Pete beamed. Patrick held up his hands, which had somehow become full of the wand-gun. How did that happen? “But we’re just clients, Pete!”

Janine’s lips twitched. Lewis Tully’s grin turned feral. “That’s what I said, too. Thirty-five years later…”

Patrick really didn’t know how he got into these things.

**

Pete really didn’t know how he lucked into these things. But he certainly wasn’t complaining. Not only did Lewis Tully outfit them both with proton packs and jumpsuits, but he introduced them to a cool guy named Oscar Barrett whose mom had once played Carnegie Hall and who ended up marrying one of the original Ghostbusters.

Oscar taught them how to use the proton packs and the ghost trap. It was all very cool until Patrick said, “We’ve never actually *seen* any ghosts, you know.”

“I felt them,” Pete piped up. “They touched my--”

Patrick face-palmed. 

Tully interrupted him. “Physical contact with a manifestation? That’s great! Do you have an estimate of the resistance force? Could it interact with material objects? Did you perceive any auditory indicators?”

“Lewis!” Janine said sharply. “I took down his statement and his ambient spectral numbers. Jeez.” She turned to Patrick. “Oscar will bring the proton packs over later, along with some structural monitors for placing in your building. Let me pull the blueprints from the city and Oscar will show you where to place them.”

“Oooh, data,” Lewis said. “Janine, I love it when you talk nerdy to me.” Tully turned to Pete and Patrick. “Okay, you two. Raise your right hands and say along with me.”

Patrick glanced at Pete, a questioning look on his face. Pete just grinned back and raised his hand. With a shrug, Patrick followed suit. It wasn’t like he wouldn’t follow wherever Pete led.

“I, say your name--”

“Don’t even,” Patrick muttered before repeating the phrase as intended, instead of literally like he _just knew_ Pete wanted to.

“Do solemnly swear to uphold the Ghostbusters code of conduct, to believe our clients, and approach the unexplained with scientific rigor--”

Pete mumbled his way through and Patrick was surprised to find himself saying the words just as firmly as anything else he took seriously.

“And pledge to abide by the main principle of Ghostbusters: Shit happens, Somebody’s gotta deal with it, and Who ya gonna call?”

Patrick lost the plot there. The whole afternoon felt so ridiculous that he couldn’t take it seriously, but as long as Pete was happy, Patrick would chant the words to ‘Stairway to Heaven’ just to see that smile.

**

Letting Pete spend the night at the venue was probably not the greatest idea, but his insistence that he wanted to try out their newly-issued equipment before they got called up for a "real" job had a thread of logic to it that Patrick couldn't argue with. Even if he wouldn’t lay money on them ever actually being called up for a “real” job as Ghostbusters. But Oscar Barrett had come by with a guy named Kevin who wasn’t the sharpest guy, but whose startling handsomeness was only outshined by the incredibly obvious mooning looks he was giving Oscar, who appeared completely oblivious.

Joe and Andy observed from the kitchenette in the little efficiency apartment space that had already been constructed in the club’s loft. Most of the rest of the space was still under construction, and Patrick had plans to turn it into a whole living space...when he had time. _Just another thing on the to-do list_. A place of their own, a club of their own, alone together.

“Is it me,” Andy asked, “or does Pete have this magnetic attraction to hopeless cases?”

Joe leaned against the wall beside the fridge. “It’s not just you. Pete’s been collecting strays and space cadets since we were kids.”

Andy pushed away from the wall. “It’s working for him.” He opened the main door. “Check in with me when you close your shift, Patrick. I’ll be downtown in the Ops Center.”

Joe followed him. “I’ve seen enough for one evening. Call me if you get, like, poltergeists or something. Shit starts flying around the room, get video. It’ll go viral.”

Patrick folded his arms. “Nothing is going to go flying around the room because it’s all bullshit, but Pete will have a good night off, and maybe some fireworks will go off.” He paused to smirk. “When I get back, that is.” Ever since that fucker shot him up with too much truth serum, Patrick couldn’t resist spilling all sorts of TMI whenever the other man was around.

“Spare me!” 

Joe returned a few minutes later. “Met the delivery girl at the door.” He handed a bag to Patrick.

Patrick peered inside. “Hey, I’m missing an egg roll!”

“Delivery tax!” Joe called up from the stairs. 

Patrick just shook his head. Oscar and Kevin finished their explanations to Pete, who paid close attention, murmuring questions at pauses and poking at the device components. By the time he let the two Ghostbusters out, it was getting on time to open the club. “I gotta go, babe.” He promised to return in a few hours after he'd checked in with the Don and Andy downtown. "Save half of that Lo Mein for me, okay?"

Pete had already stripped down to his shiny pants and a tank top. His ‘casual’ wear. "Of course, Patrick."

Patrick gave in to his impulse and hooked his fingers into the two front belt loops of Pete's jeans and pulled the taller man against him. "Save a little sugar for me, too?" He murmured against Pete's lips.

He felt, rather than saw, Pete's grin. "You know it."

**

Pete closed the door behind Patrick and settled at the table of the little apartment. It was his idea, and Patrick and the renovators had agreed because it made sense to have a crash space right away in case of emergencies for the staff. Pete's own ulterior motive was to turn it into a little love nest for himself and Patrick. But with the construction and the club opening and the Don's activities and spending time with his mom (his mom-- _his mom!_ _Patrick had given him his mom back!_ Pete still couldn't quite get over that part), they hadn't had time for more than rushed handjobs here, and sometimes sleepy sex back at the high-rise.

But Patrick was working hard for their chance to break out of the underworld--to go legit, so that Pete wouldn't have to smile his Candyman smile and shift the artist to the side to make room for the "business" man with the "experience product." He already did so much just clearing the riff-raff out of their new club. The least Pete could do was help out with clearing the other stuff.

He sat at the small dining table and unfolded the instructions Janine had printed out. "You have to follow the steps in order," she'd said. "And Lewis will be back tomorrow to collect the readouts." The instructions had plenty of pictures and Pete knew that even if he wasn't "smart," he was good at following directions.

The box was full of sensors and scientific equipment and Pete lifted the pieces out one by one. Earlier, Oscar had explained all the pieces and put them into the box in order while Kevin ambled around, taking readings on a hand-held device with antennae that waved around.

"The localized spectral photometers will collect the ambient spirit-energies. The portal detection antenna tells us from which spectral dimension your disturbance originates," Oscar had told him. "After you hook them up, clear out, because this stuff should only be handled by professionals." 

Kevin had pointed his thumbs at himself. "Like me." 

Oscar had rubbed a temple, but gave a fond glance to his assistant. “Sure, Kev. Is your helmet giving you any readings?”

Kevin shook his head. He was wearing a hat that looked like a colander with wires sticking out of it. Pete was ninety percent sure that the hat did absolutely nothing, but every so often a little spark would dance out of one of the electrodes, so Pete held that last ten percent in reserve.

But Pete was wearing silver stretch jeggings and a tank top of hot lime mesh, so he didn't think he had room to talk (and Patrick told him so). “I read up on the Disloyal Order of Water Buffaloes in _Tobin’s Spirit Guide_. They were a cult who liked to party. They would serve their members something called “Royal Tea” to induce euphoria, and the members would dance to celebrate their heathen god, a human with an animal head of--”

“Let me guess,” Oscar said. “A water buffalo?”

“Of course not,” Kevin said, clearly affronted. “Why would anyone even think that? Really, it’s like you don’t even work here.”

Pete and Oscar shared a confused look. Pete went for diffusing the situation. “It sounds kinda harmless. I mean, that’s literally what we do every night we’re open. Serve liquor to people to get them high and dancing.”

“Which is why your ghost might be awake again after all these years,” Oscar said. “Okay, we got base ambient readings. Once you set out the sensors, flip the switch and we’ll start analyzing the data back at the office. If you see the lights go from green to amber or red, that's a spike in ambient spirit energy.” He pushed his glasses up his nose. "And you should probably leave so you don't get sucked into the Netherworld."

Pete folded his arms. "Netherworld's not opening until July. They think hanging cages above the dance floor is creative." He sniffed. "Amateurs."

Really, the instructions weren't that hard--just like re-wiring the security systems used to lock up the video slot machines in the bars Pete and Joe had first been in charge of. Put the two wires just so, lick the green one and stick it under the screw head, run the lines to the buster box and put the electrodes right against the circuit board, flip the switch, and boom! the slots loosen up like magic. He shoved the take-out boxes to the side and got to work licking wires and connecting diodes.

Only in this case, he wasn't trying to goose the slots for quarters. He was trying to goose the netherworld for ghosts. He hummed a little and thought about goosing Patrick, especially when he was working the bar at the club. The way he would reach up to the suspended liquor bottles and tug them down with his fingerless gloves, standing on tiptoe to reach. Pete smiled to himself as he stretched the line with a sensor and placed it in the corner. He placed the other four at points he measured out with the yellow tape in the box, then put the switch in the middle.

"Just switch," he said out loud. He hooked the last wire into an alligator clamp on the switch box and reached for the power pack. He fit the power pack into the slot and aligned the tabs. The left one was stubborn and he jammed his thumb twice. The second time, it zapped him. 

He jerked his hand back and into the take-out. A cup of sweet and sour sauce tipped over and a drizzle spilled onto the table, oozing red like blood only sweet and tangy. "Crap!" Pete went for the cup and rescued the rest of the sauce, but the lid was cracked. He scooted the cup onto the kitchen counter and turned back to the box, licking his fingers. "Flip the switch," he said, and he flipped the switch.

He missed the tiny rivulet of sweet and sour sauce that had slipped under the open housing of the switch box.

A strange smell filled the air. Something sweet and sour, and a little bit burnt? He shrugged and gathered up the take out, heading to the fridge. Patrick wouldn't be happy if his Lo Mein went off. He turned his back on the set-up and put his hand on the fridge door handle. 

He didn't see the fuchsia mist that atomized above the box and drifted towards where he stood in the kitchen.

He cracked the seal on the fridge just as something cold brushed the back of his neck and the paper lid on the Lo Mein box popped open.

The golden light burst out of the refrigerator.

Instead of the two Tsingtaos and the half-empty jar of iffy mayonnaise, his fridge held a vast plain with an obsidian pyramid dominating the landscape. A monstrous, demonic llama head with red eyes and flaming horns rose up from where the vegetable drawer was supposed to be and said, "FROSTY!"

Pete's eyes widened. His breath caught in his throat on a choked yell. The Lo Mein box popped open and the noodles reached out, wrapping around his face and pulling him down into the pyramid in the fridge.

The pink mist slammed into him from behind and he didn't remember anything else.

The fridge door slammed shut with a bang.

**

Patrick's blue suit suited his purposes for blending into the bottles dangling from the bins suspended from the ceiling behind the bar. He supervised the other bartenders and occasionally reached up for a top-shelf (or in this case, top swing) brand to mix a drink for a known customer. Often, he ended up sending the liquor bottle bins whizzing along their suspended track in the ceiling towards one of the other bars. It was the great delight of the club-goers to see the bottle bins zooming upside down above their heads, just high enough so that even the tallest patrons couldn't reach up and grab. Not that they didn't try, though. 

Patrick gave a self-indulgent grin as he watched a group of tall models try to snag the booze bottles and laugh when they stumbled. That was part of Folie's appeal--everything was unexpected, from the upside-down, mobile liquor displays to the balanced lifts that required people from the upper floor to pile onto the opposite platform to raise the one from the bottom floor. It was a Peter Pan, Alice in Wonderland place of a club, and it had mostly come from Pete's strangely brilliant mind. And Patrick wanted suddenly very badly to rush upstairs to that beautiful mind and put his lips and tongue all over the beautiful body that went with it until Pete's quirky brain was filled with nothing but the way Patrick could make him feel.

And the paranormal, because Pete wasn't letting go of that, no matter how many non-verbal warnings Patrick had given to the woman with the thick Brooklyn accent. but Patrick figured he could share the bed with the idea of ghosts until Pete got bored with them.

But Patrick's true purpose tonight reared its ugly head just as he was hoping to sneak upstairs and see Pete. He spotted some faces he didn't quite care to see slinking around the club and shifted back behind the main bar just as the flying bin came gliding back from the dance floor.

One of those faces slid up to the bar and made a request for a drink that was on the Specials List. Patrick materialized out of the woodwork (or in this case, glasswork) as he did every time this happened. "Let me take care of that for you, friend." He tugged the chain from the suspended liquor bin and the bottle of top-shelf stuff, caged in a holder suspended from a pulley, glided down into his hand.

He poured a shot and slid it across the bar. "Sorry buddy, but your princess is in another castle." 

Most of the time, that was the end of that. After weeks of the routine, Patrick was coming to know the potential troublemakers almost before they opened their mouths. He sent a glance up to Joe just as the guy in front of him leaned over the bar. "Like hell. Didn't you hear what I said?" The guy scowled at him. His companion remained impassive in the way of all personal security, but to Patrick's eye, this meat wall looked like he knew exactly where the contractual obligations ended.

Patrick looked up and nodded in the direction of the smoked-glass window to the side of the main DJ booth where Joe ran the club security ops center. "That list isn't served at this location," he said firmly.

"Get the boss and we'll see who gets served here." The guy was now crowding over the wood of the bar and Patrick stepped forward to put himself in between the regular bartenders--the girl in the Alice in Wonderland dress and the brave soul rocking the bear suit.

"I _am_ the boss of this. And we don't serve it." Charlie appeared behind the offender and that was that for the guy's hired security.

Not so for the shopper, who jutted his chin out and flashed both of his hands, touching the rings on his fingers 

"Look pal. I said I wanted my unicorn juice and no snotty twink is gonna--"

Charlie the bouncer dropped a hand like a cinder block on the guy's shoulder. " _He_ won't," Charlie rumbled amicably, "Because he knows how much _I_ like being the one to do that."

The guy's eyes widened, then rolled from side to side looking for his muscle. Patrick waggled his fingers in a twinky little wave. "Toodles. And don't come back." He smirked as Charlie bodily escorted the troublemaker's punk-ass out the door.

**

Patrick stayed a lot longer than he intended--this guy wasn't the last one to come in looking for trouble and Joe had warned him that it would take some time to filter through the underworld grapevine that Folie a Deux was its own territory. But while Patrick was working overtime turning away the sleazebags who wanted their Candyman (and how he ached over knowing how much of himself Pete had to seal up in walls in order to be that for them for so long), the rest of the club was in a frenzy. The DJ was new--a guy and a girl with matching neon green dreadlocks made of glow stick tubes who wore day-glo make-up. Word had gotten out and patrons were crawling out of the woodwork, including some strange-looking types in weird outfits who looked like the after-party of a Great Gatsby performance.

When he finally dragged himself to the security booth to video call with Andy, he was worn down and felt fully drained, even though the rest of the club was still going strong. Hayley had sent him away, saying she could handle things from here and he had to unclench some time. Andy even ordered him upstairs to the apartment.

Joe shoved him towards the stairs. He had just enough energy to tell the curly-haired man, “My ball-sweat is sweating. That’s how crowded it is out there.”

“My dude. _Get out_.”

Patrick dragged himself up the stairs. His ears rang in spite of the ear protection he wore while in the club, and he could swear he heard some sort of strange humming coming from behind the apartment door. He tried the knob.

“Pete?” The knob wouldn’t turn. “Pete, I hope you’re not asleep.” He knocked this time.

The door swung open on hinges that should not have squeaked. The humming grew louder and a breeze swirled around his legs. And in the doorway stood Pete.

Patrick gaped.

Pete’s shiny silver club pants and tank top had disappeared in favor of an orange and gold lamé robe hanging from his shoulders that Patrick had never seen before. _Lamé is even gaudier when it’s two-toned_ , he thought. But the thought evaporated as soon as it formed because the robe was _moving by itself_.

Pete stood before him with his hair flying around his head as if he stood in the middle of a very localized weather system. Instead of his open, sunny expression, he stared at Patrick through the tops of his eyes and--was that-- _eyeliner? Fuck, he looks hot in eyeliner I had no idea_ \--

“Are you Royal Tea?”

“I--what?”

Pete slammed the door in his face.

Patrick stood there, stunned. He slammed his fist against the door. “Open up! What the hell, Pete?”

The door opened again. “I am Frosty. Are you Royal Tea?”

“Uhhh...yes?”

Pete’s personal whirlwind engulfed him (along with Pete’s arms and legs). Patrick stared deep into Pete’s eyes and saw--something there. Some light that glowed gold and spread out. Pete was breathing fast and Patrick...felt something twinge at the back of his neck.

“The Disloyal Order of Water Buffaloes has returned,” Pete said, his voice low and sultry. “I am Frosty.”

Patrick was about to say, “No, you are _nuts_ , quit messing around, Pete,” but out of the corner of his eye he saw the sensors snaking around the apartment.

Every single one glowed alarmingly red.

Golden light streaked out from Pete’s eyes and Pete breathed pink mist over him. Patrick’s eyes fluttered closed and he saw a pyramid on a burning plain of purple lava, winged rams flanking it, and a horned...llama? The llama held a chalice to Patrick’s lips. “ROYAL TEA!”

Pete’s mouth crashed into his and Patrick knew nothing but golden light.

**

Joe Trohman knew Pete Wentz would always lead him into trouble. And he was probably still karmically paying for using too much truth serum on Patrick that morning they’d left Clandestine (but dammit, he had his reasons!). But when he and Andy, accompanied by Lewis Tully, busted open the door to the apartment above the club at four in the morning, he never wanted to unsee something so badly in his life. “I didn’t see them fucking, I didn’t see them fucking.”

Oscar patted him awkwardly. “You didn’t. That’s not them. That’s two Class IV Spiritual Channels engaged in a Ritualistic Possession.”

“You’re not making it better!” Andy said. The apartment was covered in pink, misty goo that glowed iridescent.

“These readings are off the charts! Your friends really tapped into a whopper!” Lewis Tully lifted his goggles. "This is amazing. I wonder how long it's been going on. Do you think they'd let us take a sample--"

Joe was paying for it, that’s what he was doing. Every bad thing he’d ever done, every unkind thought, every day in his life of crime since his Bar Mitzvah.

Andy was the voice of reason. “How do we _un_ -tap them?”

Oscar was fiddling with the equipment he’d brought in. “If I can boost the power conversion, I should be able to create a particle field that will separate them…”

Joe glanced towards the bedroom and the noises coming from it. “I was thinking more along the lines of a crowbar. Preferably wielded by someone else.”

“Separating them from the Disloyal Order’s entities, I mean,” Oscar said. 

Kevin walked through the door. “Well if you were looking to stop the ritual opening of an inter-dimensional portal, I’d say you timed it well. We have about ten minutes to separate them from the Disloyal Order entities.” 

A particularly loud groan came from the room and Oscar glanced at Kevin, blushing furiously. 

“Maybe less,” Kevin said cheerfully, “If your friend’s got a short fuse.”

“Have mercy,” Joe begged his hands, which were covering his face.

“There’s a catch, though,” Janine Melnick said from the doorway. “The containment gear’s all set up on the main floors of the club. We’re going to have to operate it from downstairs where the main power breaker is located in order to create a containment field that will keep the rip from spreading outside the building. But that means your friends--Pete and Patrick--will have to be the ones to actually tag and bag the entities once they’re separated.” Janine dragged a heavy duffel through the door and unzipped it. “That’s why I brought these.”

Joe and Andy gaped at the bag. Andy breathed reverently. “Are those...portable proton packs? With directional target-wands?”

Tully beamed. “They sure are! And Janine, you brought them uniforms! This is their first time!”

A long moan and an “Oh yes!” came from the bedroom. 

Janine turned as red as Oscar. “I’ll be downstairs. Get those entities separated from their human hosts and get your tuchuses down to the containment nodes. We’re running out of time!”

**

Patrick woke up to the sound of every cabinet in the kitchen banging itself open and closed. There were voices in the kitchen and the smell of coffee, sweet and sour sauce, and something else permeating his consciousness.

And boy, did his ass ache.

He lifted his head. “Pete?”

Pete lifted his head from Patrick’s chest. “Ugh. Who covered us in--fluids?”

Patrick looked down and realized they were, in fact, covered in...fluids. “What happened?”

Pete shook his head. “I don’t--”

Joe burst in. “Gah!”

“Gah!” Patrick cried.

Pete just grunted sleepily.

“Look, we don’t have a lot of time so let me explain--”

“You better just sum up,” Andy said. 

Joe huffed. “Okay, look. You two were possessed by two entities that did a--oh, God I can’t believe I’m saying this--”

“Sex ritual,” Andy supplied.

“Sex ritual to rip open a portal between worlds. We separated you--from them--before they could--you could--finish--”

“Is that why I still have a boner?” Pete asked.

Joe looked at the ceiling. “I swear, Pete--”

“Doesn’t matter,” Andy snapped. “The point is that these entities are now loose on the upper floor of this building. We have to crew a containment apparatus downstairs, which means you two have to hunt down and trap these entities upstairs. Understand?” He tossed them their coveralls. “Suit up. You have about five minutes before we flip the switch on the containment field. Your proton packs are charged and waiting in the living room.”

Patrick turned to Pete, whose eyes were as wide and dazed as his own. “I--did that just happen, like really?”

Pete looked uncertain for a brief moment, considered it, and said, “Yep.” He met Patrick’s eyes again. “Come on. It will be okay.”

Patrick did his best to clean himself up--what had they done and how rough did they do it? Even Pete was moving a little gingerly. “Oh God, we _did_ have ghosts! And they _possessed_ us! And _did it_ with each other using _our_ bodies!” Patrick ran his hands through his hair. “I’m going to need time to--to process this.”

Pete knelt at his feet and held out the legs of the jumpsuit. “Process it later. Suit up now. We have to save our club. And the city.”

Patrick still reeled. But Pete took his face in his hands and forced him to look directly into those warm whiskey eyes. “Hey. I can do this. _We_ can do this. Remember, I’m good at getting the right people to the right places. That works with spirits, too.”

He followed Pete’s lead, even if he didn’t quite believe what Pete was saying. By the time they emerged from the bedroom, suited up in the tan jumpsuits, Andy and Joe were gone and two proton packs hummed quietly on the dining room table. Two cups of coffee were on the kitchen counter and Patrick slugged back one while Pete handled the other.

The coffee helped. So did Pete’s hands, tightening the straps of his proton pack (he returned the favor for Pete), and when they opened the door, proton wands in hand, Patrick felt like he could face anything.

Until he looked into the space of the unfinished area of the upper floor. _Okay, whose idea was it to hang plastic where all the walls and corridors of a penthouse would go, instead of leaving the space fully open?_

_Mine._

_And whose idea was it to leave some of the original architectural elements of the building inside the workspace where they could be piled up and covered with tarps to look like terrifying, misshapen monsters?_

_Also mine._

_Whose idea was it to let the overhead work lights shine down cold light and throw shadows over everything?_

_Mine again._

_I’m a terrible person with terrible ideas. I should not be in charge of anything._

Janine’s voice filtered through his jumpsuit’s walkie-talkie. “Pete, Patrick, we’re throwing the switch on the containment field in three, two, one--”

“Wait--”

A great whump went through the building, shaking it to its iron girders. Patrick’s ears popped and a whooshing sound went through the unfinished space. Simultaneously, every bulb in every emergency light illuminating the big empty space frotzed out, plunging them into darkness.

Okay, the work lights throwing shifty shadows wasn’t the worst look for the place.

Pete fumbled with his suit and a red light shone from his shoulder, flooding the immediate area in glowing ruby light. “See? I paid attention to the training.”

A figure crossed in front of the red glow of Pete’s light and Patrick gasped. “Did you see that?”

The figure froze and turned. Patrick stared up at the wooly face of a-- “A camel?”

“Llama,” Pete corrected him.

“Sure,” Patrick said faintly. “Because why not.”

But the llama vanished, leaving a glistening trail of pink goo. Patrick flipped on his own shoulder light. “Okay, we just have to corner them and trap them in the beams, right?”

“Yep,” Pete said. “Easy like Sunday morning.”

“Sunday mornings haven’t been easy for us, Pete!”

“That’s only because you won’t believe me when I tell you I can handle things.”

Patrick sighed. Movement shone out of the corner of his eye and he turned away from Pete. Another llama--this one he recognized from some corner of his brain. “Royal Tea! That’s the llama that stole my body!” He started off after it, a burst of confidence powering his legs. Pete was right--Patrick _wasn’t_ making Sunday mornings easy and they needed a break. 

Technically, it _is_ Sunday morning already, his stupid brain said helpfully.

“Let’s do this,” Pete said. “I’ll go after Frosty, you go after Royal Tea.” 

“Drive them as close to the middle as possible and hit them with your proton beams,” Janine’s voice instructed over the walkie-talkie.

“I don’t want to separate from you, Pete.”

“Patrick, we won’t have time if we go after each one of them separately.” Pete put a hand on his shoulder. “You can do this. And you can _let me_ do this. You haven’t trusted me to do anything by myself in so long. At least believe me when I tell you I got this!”

One of the llamas rushed towards them, making a terrible bleating noise. Pete barked at it and it backed off. Then Pete was gone, running after it, his red light bobbing in front of him. 

Patrick’s feet stuck to the floor. With Pete’s light gone, his own sad little circle of crimson wasn’t as big or comforting. He started forward on fearful feet.

**

Pete wasn’t a huge fan of the heavy proton pack, but he liked having it a lot better than not. He stalked the llama-shaped ghost through the corridors of hanging plastic that would eventually become their living space. Patrick sure seemed bothered by not remembering whatever it was they did last night, but Pete didn’t see the point in it. He knew he was with Patrick, even if he couldn’t remember exactly what they’d done or where he’d gotten that fabulous orange and gold lamé robe (it was even better than his usual one because it _changed colors!_ ) and that was what mattered. In fact, even though it was four in the morning, he was pretty sure that last night was the longest they’d spent in bed together (or out of bed together) in a long time. He wasn’t going to be picky about how he got to spend time with Patrick.

But he also wasn’t going to let Patrick keep treating him like he was made of glass. Glass and stupid. Pete knew that so many people were working hard to keep him out of trouble. He didn’t deserve it, and he didn’t need so much of it. If only people believed him when he told them things. If only _Patrick_ believed him.

He found Frosty snuffling along the bare floor of a corner stacked with junk and jumped at the ghost. “Graaah!”

The monster lifted its head and bleated angrily. Pete wasn’t afraid of it--he’d seen where it lived and he really couldn’t blame the thing for not wanting to go back, but-- “Look. I can’t have ghosts at my club.” He flipped the switch on the proton pack. “I need paying customers.” He aimed the wand. “Sorry, dude.”

**

Patrick rounded another artificial corner made of plastic, his awkwardly-bunched jumpsuit binding his arms in the wrong places, the reactor on his back weighing him down. He had spotted Royal Tea twice and each time, the horned demon-llama charged him and Patrick backed down.

"Pete?" He hiss-whispered. "Pete, please be okay," he said a little louder. "Look, I'm sorry! You were right. You can do this on your own. You can do anything you set your mind to, and you don't need the Don or Joe or--" his voice cracked, "--or even me to help you."

All around him, the girders of the upper building levels creaked and moaned. "We should have never tried to turn this place into a loft, I don't care how hipster it is. We're moving back in with the Don tonight," he muttered. "Pete," he said a little louder. The undeveloped section gave way to the roughed-in areas with metal studs and partially-hung drywall. "Please answer me. You don't--you don't need me, but I think I kinda need you."

His foot came up hard against something that rattled in the darkness. Liquid splashed over his boot and sluiced across the bare concrete floor. His next step squelched. _Carpeting! I'm stepping on wet carpet, is all_. But his mind chose that time to remind him of all those haunted houses where you walk into the creepy room through the mouth of the scary clown and it's the clown's tongue that's the walkway, spongy and uncertain. The warm, moist cave where the Millennium Falcon hid in Empire Strikes Back that turned out to be the mouth of a giant space worm.

"Please let it just be carpet," he muttered. The sensors on his suit lit up and pinged in his ear with a squeal that could only mean a Class Five Manifestation. "Oh," he muttered. "Oh God oh fuck--"

The huge sheets of plastic fixed to the studs between the finished, partially finished, and unfinished areas glow with ambient light that wasn't there before. At the end of the makeshift corridor, the plastic began to ripple. The building HVAC was silent, all the power in the entire building being devoted to the containment field downstairs. Nothing should be fluttering that plastic in the heavy, dead air. "Pete, please!"

The wind rushed towards him, heralded by the plastic. He thought he saw one of the sheets pull taut as if molding around a face in the shadows--two eyes and a snout open in a silent scream. The scream became not-so-silent as the whoosh of wind turned into a long, low moan (moo? Did llamas moo? Did ghostly demon-llamas moo?) and an actual scream from the far end of the corridor.

A scream that sounded like Pete.

"Pete!" He tripped over another bucket on the roiling tongue of carpet and began to run. The corridor stretched impossibly ahead of him, the red emergency light at the end glowing malevolently. Pete screamed again.

"Pete, I'm coming!" Patrick broke into a full run, the backpack thumping on his back. The plastic sheeting flapped in agitation, straining under the weight of whatever it was trying to come through. Patrick rounded the corner and stopped up short, his sneakers sliding in something red and sticky. "Oh God, no!"

Frosty the llama-god loomed over Pete. It seemed to be trying to work its ghostly, furry hands--paws? hooves? into Pete’s chest. Thus far, it had gotten both hands and one foot inside. It was trying to crawl back into Pete!

“Hey-- _hey!_ ” Patrick cried, aiming his target-wand. “Get outta my boyfriend!”

Frosty went translucent and Patrick couldn’t see him anymore. Only Pete, illuminated by red light. Pete turned slowly towards him, teeth bared and Patrick felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. “Pete--”

In a slow and mechanical motion, Pete lifted his target wand and fired.

Just as he did, Patrick felt a hard shove at the back of his proton pack, like something had caught on his jumpsuit and tried to rip him open from the back. He stumbled forward, his hand reflexively squeezing the wand’s trigger.

His beam shot forward, just to Pete’s left. 

Pete’s beam passed over him as he fell to the floor, face-first.

Twin echoes of outraged braying roared through the room.

Janine’s voice came through in a burst of static. "We got 'em!" The proton beams disappeared in a cone of brilliant light that shone up through the floor. The sound of llamas grew distant, then silent.

Pete dropped to the ground, motionless. He lay on the floor, coated in something thick and sticky. Red pooled out from where he lay, eyes open, flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling.

"Pete!"

The paint can still standing emitted an awkward burp and something bubbled up from inside of it.

Patrick's heart stopped. Rushing in his ears almost blotted out all the sound, leaving him alone in silence deafening enough for him to almost miss the important noises. He crawled over to Pete. “Please don’t be dead. Please don’t be a demon-llama. I’m so sorry. I believe in you, Pete. I really do.”

Patrick slumped against the support post and slid down it, much like the smears of paint and ecto-goo.

His proton wand lay depleted and forgotten. "Pete, I--just--Pete." His legs felt like the jelly that covered Pete. His heart wouldn't stop crashing in his ears. He couldn't breathe.

"He slimed me."

Patrick blinked. 

Pete moved slowly, rolling to the side, then carefully pushing himself up, covered in slime and more than a little red paint. "That was amazing!"

"Amazing?" Patrick croaked. "Amazing?" He cleared his throat and said it louder this time. "Pete, what were you thinking! You could have been killed! Or--or--or--dragged to the netherworld or something!"

"Netherworld's not opening until July," Pete said, deliberately misunderstanding. "It has dance cages suspended by chains from the ceiling. Do you think we should have done that for Folie à Deux?"

"Peter! Focus!" Patrick wheezed now. "I was worried about you!"

Pete moved faster. Still gooey, he clambered over the mess and pushed into Patrick's arms. Patrick felt the cold ectoplasm seep into his coveralls as Pete mashed his mouth against Patrick's. "I'm okay, Patrick. I can take care of myself, you know. Ghosts love me."

 _But I love you_ , Patrick thought plaintively. Out loud, he was much grumpier. "They're not allowed to love you more than me."

Pete pecked his lips again, leaving behind a thick residue that tasted faintly musty. "Patrick, you should listen to what I tell you. I didn't say _I_ loved ghosts. I love _you_ , silly. Ghosts are intriguing and yeah, I'm flattered that they dig my body but my heart's all yours. You fucked a ghost for me."

A quiver burbled up from Patrick's chest. He didn't know if it emerged as a laugh or a sob. "I really, really didn't." He still didn't quite know what happened that night. Pete opened the door in his lamé robe with that stupid question and Patrick's own mouth uttered some nonsense response that didn't make sense but felt right and suddenly someone else was driving his body. He just remembered the golden light with the pink mist and the feeling of holding some brilliant spark of Pete's heart next to his own. "I think I just let it borrow my body for a while. I don't know what came over me."

Pete pushed him down. The light in his eyes answered the one in Patrick's and Patrick just knew that he was remembering that same golden light, that same feeling of peace and passion and overwhelming love.

Then he opened his mouth. "I did, Patrick. I came over you."

Patrick's groan turned into a moan when Pete ground his hips against his and the giddy feeling turned into a streak of heat that sent his entire crotch alight. 

"And I'll do it again," Pete promised, already working the snaps of Patrick's jumpsuit free.

"Pete, this is--unprofessional--we--we don't have lube--" Patrick's protests told an entirely different story from his actions--he was already kicking off the legs of the jumpsuit, lifting his hips for Pete to drag down his underwear. Relief at surviving a paranormal event the size of the Tunguska Blast of 1909 did something to your libido (Hey, he did read a little of that manual).

Pete grinned and scooped a handful of ectoplasm off the front of his shirt. "I think the ghosts owe us one, don't you?"

**Author's Note:**

> I feel like I may owe the Ghostbusters fandom an apology for what I've just inflicted upon them?
> 
> Many thanks go out to the Peterick Creations Challenge team for coming up with these clever challenge ideas and for keeping the fandom content flowing! Make sure to check out the other works in this collection and all the challenges!
> 
> Hat-tip to @rainbowmatic-stumpomatic over on Tumblr for the fabulous moodboards, too! Tag me on Tumblr at @glitterandrocketfuel - I love comments and kudos, they feed my soul.  
> Don't do crime, kids. The cops hate the competition.


End file.
